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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
September 14, 2009
A truly imaginative offering, ~SmileforSomeone's and we found... easily takes what seems ordinary and turns it into something quite extraordinary.
Featured by LadyLincoln
Suggested by Gir-Gir
Literature Text
we love like we sin, terrified and breathless.
we are tea-at-midnight girls, naming constellations
that don't exist after lost tourists we meet on the
street, reminding our freckle covered shoulders
that even beautiful things can be made ordinary.
we are broken fingers and half-closed eyelids and a
penchant for mischief. we are ribbon skin and frantic
desires and incandescent hope. we are a voice spilling
secrets to falling leaves diving after their arachnid brothers,
mimicking the millions before us who were
judged unfairly, unjustly but all too correctly.
we whisper promises to dandelions because they do not
know how to hold grudges and we refuse to die because
the world can not stand the sight of our scars and
cloud-colored eyes filled with a malady called freedom.
we are believers and dreamers and scared to death but we
are not done yet. we are dusty library windows and thunder
raking through bones and leaving eyes glowing, skin shaking,
burning whispers of 'I'm sorry, but this is me. This is just
me.'
we are not victims, we are survivors,
and you'll be praying for death by tomorrow morning.
we are tea-at-midnight girls, naming constellations
that don't exist after lost tourists we meet on the
street, reminding our freckle covered shoulders
that even beautiful things can be made ordinary.
we are broken fingers and half-closed eyelids and a
penchant for mischief. we are ribbon skin and frantic
desires and incandescent hope. we are a voice spilling
secrets to falling leaves diving after their arachnid brothers,
mimicking the millions before us who were
judged unfairly, unjustly but all too correctly.
we whisper promises to dandelions because they do not
know how to hold grudges and we refuse to die because
the world can not stand the sight of our scars and
cloud-colored eyes filled with a malady called freedom.
we are believers and dreamers and scared to death but we
are not done yet. we are dusty library windows and thunder
raking through bones and leaving eyes glowing, skin shaking,
burning whispers of 'I'm sorry, but this is me. This is just
me.'
we are not victims, we are survivors,
and you'll be praying for death by tomorrow morning.
Literature
because rain is meant for...
if living were a shirt,
you'd be size large
and i would be an
extra-small,
strangled by my own
attire,
because i spend my time
walking downtown
feeling smaller
and smaller
every
day.
if ever i had
the chance to hear
ten thousand abbey-monks
singing in perfect harmony,
i would still be stubborn enough
to say you
are more divine.
you are the start,
the in-between,
and the ever-after
of the most destructive
and beautiful storms
to grace the surface of my world;
every time you walk away
you leave behind
everything, everything,
all the evidence
that it will surely
rain again.
but i do not deserve
to dance in such
Literature
My Muse Went On Vacation
My muse went on vacation
and took all my best thoughts
and all my favorite phrases,
and the bunnies with their plots,
she ran off with all the fluff stuff,
she ran off with the hero's sword--
she left me sitting here alone,
bemused and rather bored.
My muse went on vacation
To a sunny foreign clime,
and left me sitting here alone
without a word to rhyme,
She's laying on a beach somewhere
without a hint of snow,
and leaving me with winter's chill
and no place left to go.
My muse went on vacation -
I hope she's coming back
With a healthy tan, a rosy glow
and some fresh stuff to attack--
I miss her interaction,
how she drov
Literature
The Thing About Cliches
I.
If this were a cliché,
A poem, or both
It would be about sparkling midnight skies and heartbeats and flowers and sex.
There would be oceanic eyes and rain that tastes like tears. Well throw in anxiety-riddled murmurs and metaphorical bullets and allusions to sharp objects for pity.
This is not a cliché anymore.
So instead I wrote about the flavor of emerald and the fragrance of April hope. I painted pictures of a perfect pencil, poised over a blank page.
II.
If this were a romance,
A message in a bottle, or both
It would still be cliché, to capture electric fingers and longings locked away with skeleton keys
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full title: and we found that, together, we could never breathe
edit:
Thank you everybody for the favorites and the comments! I'm honored and pleased to have gotten a DD. I never thought my writing would really touch someone but it seems like I was wrong. Again, thank you so much.
edit:
Thank you everybody for the favorites and the comments! I'm honored and pleased to have gotten a DD. I never thought my writing would really touch someone but it seems like I was wrong. Again, thank you so much.
Comments240
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